Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(53)

Fran?oise’s sudden laugh was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Speaking of dear old Larry, how’s your search coming? Is he being helpful?”

“Larry’s been a help.” Morgana withdrew her hand, set it in her lap, as if embarrassed by its intimate gesture. “But I still don’t know where the locus is.”

Fran?oise frowned. “The piece is still online.”

“Yes, and another just showed up, but it isn’t helping me much. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle with no clues.”

“Then we’ve got to redouble our efforts to find it.”

“Larry and I already agreed on that. We’ve split up assignments. While I’m working on decoding the algorithm, he’s using his sources worldwide to track the locus.”

She smiled. “He’s closer than I am. In fact, he’s very close, which is good because this algorithm is like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.”

“Yes, but we still have no idea when it’s scheduled to be deployed.”

Morgana took a breath, let it out slowly. “Actually, we do now. One thing I’ve been able to decipher is that the new algorithm has a built-in Day Zero trigger.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ten days from today, the cyber weapon will be deployed, and the American president’s nuclear codes will be vulnerable. Bourne or whoever is directing the team will be able to set off a catastrophic event of unprecedented proportions.”

“Armageddon.”

Morgana nodded. “And as it stands right now, nothing will be able to stop it.”





19



Keyre, there is no way I’m doing anything for you.”

“No hasty decisions, Bourne.”

“Nothing hasty about this one.”

Keyre smiled like an uncle indulging a willful and ignorant adolescent. The two men were sitting in facing rattan chairs with cushions of a tribal pattern typical of coastal Somalia. Between them was a wooden table carved in the intricate Arabic style. On it was a beaten bronze tray on which sat a large pot of tea, two handleless cups, three small plates, one each of dried dates, hummus, and wedges of unleavened bread. A solid concrete floor, rather than beaten earth, beneath their feet, solid walls, lamps lit by electricity provided by a pair of large generators. The room was a far cry from the soiled tents of his first visit.

The Angelmaker stood at some remove. Beside her was a small table on which was placed a buff-colored folder and an army or marine surplus walkie-talkie. She inhabited a spot precisely between the two men, as if in an effort to appear neutral, which Bourne knew perfectly well was an illusion, tempting though it might be to consider.

“I must have missed the line of tanning heads on my way in,” Bourne said now.

Keyre kept his smile in place. “Beheadings are part of the past.” He gestured with an open hand. “You should eat. You need to build up your strength.”

Bourne ignored him, lifted his head slightly, nostrils dilated. “The air smells fresher, too. Is target practice on headless corpses a thing of the past, too?”

Keyre’s smile was stretched now, a veneer that Bourne was determined to crack.

“What we have here now is a business,” Keyre said. “We even have a CFO.”

“A chief financial officer,” Bourne echoed. “What’s next, a listing on the stock exchange?”

“A lucrative idea.” Keyre reached for a date, held it on the tips of his fingers and thumb. “But I’m afraid it’s still imperative we fly under the radar.”

Bourne grunted. “I can imagine.”

At this point, the Angelmaker stepped forward, slathered a triangle of bread with hummus, handed it to Bourne. He waited a moment before taking it. Their eyes met for a moment before he popped it in his mouth, chewed slowly. Keyre ignored her as she returned to the spot of her vigil.

“So…” The date disappeared into Keyre’s mouth. He ate it, pit and all. “Time to get down to business.”

Bourne stared at him. “We have no business.”

“So you say.” Keyre’s hands, fingers intertwined, lay in his lap, as if to emphasize his calm. “But the fact is, there is business between us—business you will want to discuss.”

Leaning forward, Bourne dipped a triangle of bread into the hummus, ate it as slowly as the first, while regarding Keyre with a neutral expression.

Keyre now lifted a hand as if he were carrying a tray. This must have been a signal; the Angelmaker turned, took the folder off the table and placed it in his hand before returning once again to her original position. He left it there, for a long moment, then plucked it off with his other hand. Opening it, he held up an eight-by-ten head shot, the features flattened, indicating it was taken with a long telephoto lens.

“This man is known to you.”

It was not a question, and Bourne didn’t take it as such. “Is he known to you?”

At last the tiniest crack appeared in Keyre’s carefully constructed fa?ade. “Gora.” He could not keep the disgust out of his voice.

“Yegor Maslov, known to his friends as Gora. Son of the late Dimitri Maslov, head of the Kazanskaya.”

“The fucking Russian mafia, yes. A thorn in both our sides.”

“General Karpov took care of Dimitri.”